


One Thousand Beautiful Things

by rhiannonhero



Category: Highlander
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-05
Updated: 2011-02-05
Packaged: 2017-10-15 10:18:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,995
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/159828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhiannonhero/pseuds/rhiannonhero
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written in December 2003.  Originally posted to my livejournal and website.</p>
    </blockquote>





	One Thousand Beautiful Things

**Author's Note:**

> Written in December 2003. Originally posted to my livejournal and website.

“One of a thousand regrets, MacLeod.” Methos turned  
from him and strode away, head tilted back and hands stuffed deep  
into pockets. “One of a thousand regrets.”

Mac watched him cut a path across the grass before he took his  
first step toward destiny. The double quickening still whirred under  
his skin, in his veins and he couldn’t forget what he’d  
known when his life-force had merged with Methos’, as they’d  
shared the violence of Silas’ and Kronos’ quickenings.  
He’d known Methos in those moments—the power, the strength,  
the endless, hurting depth of years that stretched back into nothingness.  
The ecstasy of full knowledge, a communion deep and terrifying,  
and it had all been withdrawn almost as soon as it had filled him,  
retreating like a wave hurtling back into the ocean. But Immortal  
memory served and he had not forgotten a stray thought, a sharp  
emotion, an overwhelming sensation, all of what they’d shared,  
albeit unwillingly, was forged into his cells forever.

There was too much that Mac understood now and, yet, so very much  
that he’d never know, never understand. His pride struggled  
to accommodate the information received. Memories slid through his  
mind like they were his own, whole emotions and sensations still  
within him to experience. He could feel the enraptured adoration  
Methos had felt upon meeting Kronos—a man who saved Methos  
from ongoing torture in the guise of worship and, yes, that was  
something that MacLeod would give anything to forget. Yet he clung  
to that memory almost more than any other. He recognized it as the  
most vulnerable part of Methos, the part that the Old Man would  
never have let him see willingly.

Memories taunted him. Once upon a time, Kronos had **saved**  
Methos, and there was not a little thankfulness left for that. He’d  
arrived high on a horse with that intoxicating immortal buzz; he’d  
taken Methos under his wing, loved him, taught him, showed him life  
without hunger, worshiped his body--abused him, beat him, raped  
him, murdered him again and again--yes, it was a twisted relationship,  
one that Mac knew he would never truly understand. But he did know  
that Methos had loved Kronos, then feared Kronos, then hated Kronos,  
and eventually _killed_ Kronos to escape him. Even now, even  
knowing that Kronos was dead, Mac knew that Methos feared his ‘brother’s’  
return. Perhaps he feared to see Kronos peering out of Mac’s  
eyes? It wasn’t as though Mac hadn’t fallen prey to  
strong darkness in the past, and to take Caspian and Kronos both  
in one day had been necessary, but perhaps tempting fate.

Methos strode easily, his gait smooth and strong. Mac stalked behind  
him, just to the side, keeping his distance, measuring his thoughts.  
He’d have one shot at it. Methos would perhaps not even allow  
that.

Mac knew that just as he’d seen and known Methos, Methos  
had seen and known him. He wondered what parts of himself had washed  
into Methos’ crevices and filled him, then retreated leaving  
them empty again. Had Methos felt his love for Tessa? Had Methos  
been invaded by the memory Tessa in sunlight—bright, beautiful,  
intense? Had he known the fear Duncan felt when cast out by his  
clan, alone and cursed? Had he tasted the joy Duncan felt in Little  
Deer’s arms? And the grief that had nearly destroyed his sanity  
when she had died? Did he feel the hatred that still pounded at  
the gates of his soul from the Dark Quickening? How much had Methos  
seen of Duncan’s feelings for him? Did he sense the depth  
of them as Duncan had sensed the depth of reciprocity in Methos?

They approached the incline to the road. Mac couldn’t wait  
much longer. Fear be damned—they could pretend it had never  
happened or they could embrace the experience together.

“Methos!” Duncan called over the distance separating  
them.

Methos’ feet slowed until he stopped in his tracks, not turning  
around. His shoulders curved and his hands in his pockets. Methos  
huddled in on himself.

“What do you want, MacLeod? It’s been a long week.  
We should get some rest. You especially.” Methos tilted his  
head up to the sky and Mac observed him take a deep steadying breath.  
“I know that I could stand to be alone for awhile. Bora Bora  
calls.”

Duncan caught up to Methos and stopped just behind him, eyes focused  
on the nape of Methos’ neck. “Methos—”

Methos shrugged. “There is nothing to be done about it, MacLeod.  
What is done is done. Regrets are useless. I’ve got thousands  
of them and they do nothing but make me miserable. You must move  
on from this. I will.”

“Live, grow stronger, fight another day?” Duncan spoke  
to Methos’ curved back.

Methos flinched. “My motto for many millennia.”

Duncan dropped a heavy hand onto Methos’ shoulder. With strong  
pressure applied steadily, he turned Methos around, but the intelligent  
eyes were closed. So little to be found in the drawn lines of Methos’  
face where everything was a mystery--his age at first death, his  
age now, his fears and loves--nothing showed there and yet it reflected  
everything, every mood and whimsy. It was as much of a mask as the  
rest Methos’ persona. In the throes of the double quickening  
Duncan had tasted the real man and he wanted more of that essence.

Methos kept his head turned heavenward and his eyes closed. The  
spiky lashes splayed under his eyes and the sharp angles of his  
face invited fingers and hands. Mac ran his palm from Methos’  
shoulder, up the back of his neck and curved it against Methos’  
cheekbone, thumb caressing the lashes softly. Methos stood completely  
still and Mac realized that Methos wasn’t breathing.

Duncan moved his hand to clasp the back of Methos head, grasping  
a handful of the short, soft hair. “I thought I’d lost  
you, Methos.”

Methos swallowed and only the flutter of eyelashes gave any indication  
that he heard Duncan’s words.

“To Kronos.”

Methos inclined his chin in acknowledgement of Duncan’s fear  
and betrayal.

“To Cassandra.”

Methos ducked his chin even further into his coat.

Duncan didn’t move his hand, gripping the dark hair even  
more tightly as he remembered the terror he’d felt when he  
realized that Cassandra might not listen to him, might not care  
what his wishes were with regards to Methos, bent solely on her  
own revenge. He could still see the glint of the ax hanging over  
Methos’ vulnerable neck and feel the burn in his throat as  
he’d barked in terror, “Cassandra! I want him to _live_!”

“She might have killed you.”

Methos shrugged minutely. “Death at her hand would have been  
poetic justice. I could think of worse ways to die.”

Duncan tugged Methos to him, forcing him into a hug. He tucked  
Methos’ face against his neck and cradled the stiff body,  
whispered, “I know you didn’t want to die.”

Methos’ breath was hot on Duncan’s neck as he replied,  
“I don’t know what I wanted. I only knew that I’d  
lost as much as I’d won.”

Duncan noted that Methos didn’t struggle against him although  
his body remained rigid.

“I know that you loved him.”

“I despised him.”

“No. Well, yes.”

Methos chuckled and Duncan felt him relax a little.

“Methos, you loved him. You loved them all.”

“Not Caspian. Never Caspian.”

Duncan shuddered and stroked his hand down Methos’ back.  
“No. Not Caspian.”

“I don’t know how many times I almost took Caspian’s  
head, myself.”

MacLeod held Methos tighter and murmured, “I don’t  
want to lose you.”

Methos’ arms finally came up around Duncan’s back.  
“I’m not going anywhere, MacLeod.”

“Bora Bora?”

Methos sighed. “I do need some time.”

Mac pulled back and used his grip in Methos’ hair to tilt  
his head up and force a meeting of their eyes. “And I need  
you.”

“Mac—”

Duncan didn’t allow him to voice whatever denial he was going  
to pronounce. He lowered his lips and took Methos’ mouth in  
a kiss. Holding Methos tightly against him, he felt all of the tension  
drain from the lean body and felt Methos’ knees buckle.

Against the base of an angel statue, in a graveyard, during broad  
daylight wasn’t the way he’d imagined this, but Methos  
was in his mouth and it was sweet. So sweet and so good.

Methos’ gripped Duncan’s hair, pulling it free of the  
clip and wrapping thick locks around and over his hands. “Holy  
fucking Christ,” he whimpered as he thrust his cock in and  
out of Duncan’s mouth.

Duncan let him pump a few times before grasping his hips and pulling  
back to suck and lick.

“Don’t tease me, Mac. Jesus, I’ve waited so long  
for this.” Methos’ voice cracked and grated.

Duncan pulled back, ignoring the whimper as cool air touched Methos’  
cock. “I wouldn’t tease you, Methos. I want you. I want  
you to come in my mouth and then I want to fuck you until you come  
again.”

Methos flung his head back against the stone base of the statue  
and babbled, “I never thought--Gods--I thought--fuck.”

Duncan hummed as he sucked Methos back down, swallowed around him  
again and again. Methos bucked and twisted, trying to get further  
into Duncan’s throat, but then he stilled. A tight, fierce,  
tension that swelled in Duncan’s mouth and then Methos was  
jerking and moaning, his cock jetting hard streams of come onto  
Duncan’s tongue.

Duncan swallowed and sucked until Methos twitched in his need to  
escape the sensation. Duncan turned his attention briefly to Methos’  
balls, sucking them into his mouth and then kissing the sweet, hairless  
spot on the inside of Methos thigh. ’

He dared to look up and Methos stared down at him open mouthed  
and wide eyed. Stunned was good look on him; Duncan wanted to keep  
it there.

“Methos,” Duncan said as he rose from his crouch. He  
nuzzled Methos’ neck as he put Methos’ jeans straight  
again, tucking him in, zipping and buttoning. “Methos?”

Duncan sighed in relief as Methos turned to capture Duncan’s  
mouth in a hard kiss, whispering, “I need you.”

Whatever that admission cost Methos, Duncan didn’t want to  
know, he could only give in return. “And, I _need_ you.  
Now.” He thrust against Methos’ hip.

Methos groaned and let his head fall to Duncan’s shoulder.

Duncan held Methos tight, whispered, “Right now, I want you  
at the hotel, in a bed, naked.”

“I can do naked,” Methos chuckled a little hysterically.

“Luckily, I can do the hotel. Come on.” Mac held Methos  
steady against his side as they left the cemetery.

It had to be enough. Mac had to keep him close.

This close. So close that he could feel his quickening merging  
with Methos’ again, so close that Mac could feel Methos’  
pulse beating against his cock, so close that the tight heat held  
him frozen in ecstasy, cock pulsing, muscles shaking and Methos  
holding him as he came.

Sweaty limbs twined and long breathless kisses brought them down  
until they settled together, spooned on their sides. A soft noise  
in Methos’ chest moved Duncan to roll over and touch Methos’  
face.

“What are you thinking about?”

Methos’ smile grew soft and sad. Serious. Duncan felt fear  
tighten in his stomach. He could already imagine the words that  
Methos would use to break it to him gently that this had been a  
mistake. That he was going to leave after all.

Duncan spoke softly, “This isn’t going to be another  
one of your thousand regrets is it?”

Methos pulled Duncan’s head down to his chest and murmured  
against his ear, “I hope not, MacLeod. I hope it will be the  
first of a thousand beautiful things between us.”

Duncan smiled, relief flooding his body.

Only a thousand? He thought that Methos might be underestimating  
their potential and their longevity. Personally, he hoped to make  
it a million.

 

 **The End**

**Author's Note:**

> The odd formatting is due to being imported from my website. I will leave it archived as it is for now.


End file.
